


Quixotic

by CyborgShepard



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Moira has Feelings, Mutual Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-02-09 02:51:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12878619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CyborgShepard/pseuds/CyborgShepard
Summary: quix o ticadjective1. foolishly impractical especially in the pursuit of ideals; marked by rash lofty romantic ideas or extravagantly chivalrous action2. capricious, unpredictable





	1. A Spiral

**Author's Note:**

> A series of vignettes, all in the same universe, all moicy.

“ _Scheisse_!” Angela hisses, slipping into the common room. Her briefcase is absolutely tarnished and her shoes squelch uncomfortably as she slides past the large coffee table. If her holopad isn’t completely shot she’ll be surprised, but she knows all her paper drafts will be absolutely destroyed. “ _Verdamnt_ ," she grouches, peeling off her slick coat. She’s completely sopping wet, and she’s dripped a neat little puddle around her on the tiles.

“Good morning, Dr Ziegler,” lilts a smooth voice from the table. Angela whips around and sends a spray of droplets flying. “How was your flight in?”

Moira sits with her legs crossed and the morning paper held loosely between her long fingers. A cup of coffee sends wisps of steam billowing next to her. Behind her, through the large bay windows, the thick black storm continues to roil over the Gibraltar coastline.

Taken aback, Angela stumbles over her words. “Oh, Dr. O’deorain,” she swallows. She hadn’t expected anyone to be up this early. It's barely six in the morning. “Yes, it was fine, thank you. I just misjudged the distance from the hangar to HQ.” Lightning flirts with the tumbling waves. “And whether or not I’d need an umbrella.”

Moira’s light eyes flick to her, and under her scrutiny Angela feels herself flush warmly. It doesn’t feel… unpleasant, she thinks, but that’s only because her body temperature is no doubt below freezing. She’s wet all the way through; because of the _rain._

“Do you have your personal luggage?” Moira questions. Angela shakes her head, and her stringy hair sticks to her cheeks.

“It’s still in cargo,” she explains, gathering herself. “And I don’t think I’ve anything in my locker. It’s alright, I’ll go start the fire and sit for a while.”

Moira snorts, and something funny twinges in Angela’s chest. She stands then, unfolding her long legs and settling her paper down so gently it barely rustles. “Don’t be daft, you’ll turn blue before that. I’m sure I have something in my locker you can borrow. Come.”

Leaving her shoes and her briefcase in the common room Angela follows Moira down the long corridor and then through the fire exit. They spiral down the stairs in silence, Angela leaving wet footprints on the concrete through her sheer stockings behind her like a gingerbread trail.

It’s been a month that’s she’s been away on fellowship business, visiting the top hospitals across the continent. She’d made a breakthrough with her nanobiology research, and Overwatch had been commended for its tireless work for the betterment of humanity, and for its aid during the crisis. On returning, she hadn’t exactly expected for Moira to be the first person to welcome her home, and she waits for a terse comment or backhanded compliment to come.

But Moira says nothing. Instead, she leads her down to the locker rooms and unlocks hers with a flick of her fingers. Huh. Maybe Moira changed while she was away, Angela wonders, but then thinks it impossible. She’s just in a good mood.

She roots through the contents of her locker, and procures the black slip she'd wear under her own version of the Valkyrie suit. “Will this do? I’m sure it’ll be much too big on you, but unless you have a belt my trousers will sit around your ankles.”  

Angela blushes stupidly, and hurriedly waves her off. “That’ll be perfect. Thank you, Moira, I’ll make sure to have it cleaned and returned.”

Moira just shrugs. “Take your time, I’m rarely in the suit anymore.” She turns back to continue fiddling with the lock, and Angela begins the arduous task of peeling all her layers.

Her fingers tremble over the buttons on her blouse with how cold she is, but she works them loose and shucks the garment onto an empty cot in the corner. Her singlet is drenched, and catches her hair when she peels it up her chest. Next to go is her skirt, which clings to her thighs in all the bad ways, because as good as her ass might look she is _cold,_ and didn’t exactly anticipate that this is how her day would start.

Droplets of water sluice down her flat belly when she rights herself, dipping into her navel. Gooseflesh stipples over her skin, especially her chest, and Angela rubs her hands over her freezing arms. “I can’t thank you enough Moira. I’m sure after my debriefing I can indulge in a long hot bath.”

When Moira says nothing, Angela looks up, and finds her staring her down. Her eyes hold an intensity Angela’s never seen before, even when she’s working. Moira’s tongue darts over her red, thin lips, and Angela isn’t sure but she thinks the tips of her ears have gone red, and the flush travels down her throat, below her collar and windsor knot. Her soft freckles are stark up on her cheeks. Angela watches her throat shift as she swallows, hard.

Angela fidgets. Being so frequently out in the field she’s used to undressing in front of others, and really, so should Moira be. Hell, she’s still wearing her underwear, even her garterbelt and stockings. Taking into account the communal showers, and how many times she’s had to cut people out of their clothes for emergency aid, nudity means nothing. A body is a body, and Moira, as a woman of science and as a doctor, knows this. But this… feels different, this feels charged, and palpable, and like _something_ could happen--

“Yes,” blurts Moira, taking sudden interest in one of Tracer’s posters defacing the wall. She holds the dress out awkwardly. “I’m sure you can relax the rest of the day.”

Tentatively Angela takes it, and when she does Moira turns stiffly. “I’ll have those washed for you, and check up with your luggage. You’ve had a long flight, go rest.”

Hurriedly she gathers Angela’s sopping clothes and doesn’t look back as she strides out of the locker room.

Angela shimmies into the black dress and Moira was right, it hangs off her frame. Her own slip clings to her mid thigh, but Moira’s dangles under her knees. It’s comfortable, at the least.

Weird, Angela thinks, that Moira should be so benevolent with her. She watches the tumultuous ocean for a time, the sunrise hidden behind the heavy black clouds, before the chime of the overhead comm rings out.

Athena is awake. Time to start the day. It's good to be back.


	2. A Phone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For prompt 4. from the kissing meme, "throwing their arms around the other person, holding them close while they kiss"

“Come on,” Angela tells her, and she sounds impatient, “you know you don’t want this.” 

There’s a glimmer of something in her eyes though, a light that isn’t quite as bright as it was eight years ago but Moira has hope all the same. She keeps her hands by her sides, though, as if the vines crawling along the crumbling facade of the building behind them have crept to her wrists. 

Outside their shelter the city ignores them: people rush by with their bicycles and their prams and their briefcases, people who don’t know her name or her face or what she’s done. But the only person who matters to Moira knows all of it. 

“Please,” Angela hisses, as if Moira is the one who has her trapped in this alleyway. "I haven't been involved with Overwatch, I have nothing to give you.” 

She’s lying. There was a ping from the remnants of Watchpoint: Gibraltar, Athena and maybe someone else living in the exoskeleton of the base. Maybe it’s Morrison. Maybe Angela herself stows there, where the memories brimming in each room suffocate her and the hallways stretch on endlessly. Her constitution always held strong; Dr Angela Ziegler never supported Overwatch towards the end of her tenure, and idly Moira wonders if she uses her own public stance to veil her secret activities. 

It’s a possibility. After all, Moira was Overwatch at its worst and Angela hasn’t walked out of this alley and as far away from her as she can get, not yet. 

Curious, Moira watches her almost reverently, her head tilted, her face wrapped up in scarf but her eyes unmistakable. Hungry. Lonely. “I miss you.” It comes out muffled, but with the way Angela winces she may as well have screamed. 

“Who’s fault is that?” 

“Mine,” Moira admits lightly, because she’s come to terms with that already. 

Angela’s hair has grown long. It’s wound tightly into a bun at the base of her skull, and the wet winter air catches in the gold and makes it shiny. Her lips are chapped raw and she isn’t wearing any makeup, leaving Moira privy to the flush bitten on her cheeks. Angela looks so painfully familiar and yet so devastatingly not, as if Moira had slipped into a universe where the sky was always grey and the people always sad, always mourning. 

Moira’s guilty pleasure is entertaining the idea that Angela is mourning her. 

“I should call the police,” Angela tells herself. “You’re-“ 

Still in love. 

“-A war criminal. You’re wanted in more than a dozen different countries.” 

“So you check up on me?” 

Angela’s lip twitches, but Moira pretends she doesn’t see it. “You need to leave.” 

Madrid is bitter in autumn, though its people don’t seem to mind, and Moira supposes that the furrow set in Angela’s brow isn’t due to the weather. The plastic phone in her coat pocket is archaic, and heavy, though not because of its make. Moira thumbs it, closes her eyes when the wind tumbles into their alley. 

“Come with me.” 

Angela laughs, it’s hollow. “Moira, you don’t want this. You made it clear what you wanted.”

“Can’t I have both?”

Sometimes, Moira wonders if things would be different had she known how Overwatch would end, if she’d known when to pull out, and to take Angela with her; somewhere far from Talon’s claws, where her own hubris mightn’t have grown and flourished.

“You can't play on both sides.” 

“What if we made our own.”

Angela goes quiet for a long time, only staring up at her, her neck at an almost comical angle that Moira only finds endearing and makes her heart glow. Her thoughts are guarded behind her grey eyes, so Moira doesn’t hope for anything too ambitious, but there's still a glimmer there. 

"Come with me," asks Moira again, and this time she squeezes the burner phone like a lifeline and pulls it from her pocket, pressing it to Angela's gloved palm. "Anything you want, you could ask for anything and it'd be yours." 

 _Even me,_ Moira might have said, if it weren't for the lump in her throat and the hollowness in her chest.  _If you'd have me._

She bites her lip but Angela still takes the burner phone, only not so she can throw it on the cobblestone and smash it with her heel, which comes as a mild surprise. But Moira knows her, she already understands, before Angela has even opened her mouth. 

She recognises the sadness, the regret, and that only twists the knife deeper. 

Moira's hair is loose around her ears, and for once she's glad for her fringe, so that she can shut her eyes in some semblance of privacy and not have Angela pity her. 

"There was a message. A recall." 

Moira knows.

"Believe me, I'm not involved. But I just thought that I... I don't know. That I should just... see." 

Moira's shoes feel like they've turned to lead, and her breath shudders like her lungs carry a great weight. They got to Angela first.

Just as Moira goes to open her mouth and rebut, some small part of her mind whispers that it's pointless. That Angela's already made up her mind, and that whatever they had -- could still, perchance, have -- was never going to be strong enough to convince her to come to Oasis. It stings, but it isn't surprising, and Moira knows she'll move on. 

Perhaps it'll simply take eight years and a day. 

"I still," Angela whispers in German, and Moira guesses she isn't supposed to understand, "I still-"

Moira pulls her scarf down and pushes her hair away, fluffing her coat to give her shaky hands something better to do, and it's as she's about to turn that Angela falls forward, pressing her face into her chest and winding her arms around her brittle waist so tightly, as though Moira's a dream that could fade at any moment. She's crying, maybe, or trying not to let herself, and Moira reasons she should probably say something vapid and empty along the lines of,  _it's okay_ or perhaps,  _we can still be friends._ But that selfish part of her that grew in her chest and wrapped itself around the rungs of her ribcage wants to hold her in return, because it's probably all she'll ever get again. 

This Angela smells like soap and hotel sheets when she presses her nose to her hair, she doesn't smell like hers. This Angela has thin bones that stick out from her skin, and a ragged chest with a hollow heartbeat. She's cold, despite her layers, and Moira finds it so strange; that she can know the genetic compound of a human being like she knows all the purple scars on the back of her right hand and yet not comprehend why Angela doesn't feel the same as she did back in Gibraltar. 

When she looks down at her, she doesn't quite understand why Angela pushes herself up on her toes to press those windburnt lips to the pale slit of her mouth. 

It's little more than a brush but Moira's breath falters and her arms tighten anyway, and it's strange, when Angela lets herself melt into her. They kiss for hardly a moment, but Moira commits every little detail to her photographic memory. She maps every mole stippled across her face and she remembers the peachfuzz in front of her ears and the gunmetal grey of her eyes, as pretty as the Shannon river. Her arms slip down around her to hold her so tightly Moira wonders if she'll break her. 

"Come on," Angela says against her mouth, her voice thick, as she pries Moira's arms off her.

"Come back," Moira offers instead.

But she eventually pulls away, and all Angela gives her is one last look before she tugs her scarf tight and steps back out into the world, all while sliding the phone inconspicuously into her coat pocket.


End file.
